I often wish I were a gentler man,
pruning flowers from thorns
in the garden of words;

but what a small nuisance
as clouds eat the days
undulating cathedral
of red and blue sky

I devour my life to the bone,
is enough to not covet
much more than the dawn child of sunset.

You are gentle.
              The whisper of a breeze
                      During a summer's eve.
              The slightest tremor
                      Of a broken melody.

Yet you still play the violin.
                                   Softly.
                                   Gently.
The strings moving along
               To your song.

This is your love laid bare,
And you hope it is enough
To show her you care,
               Loud enough to hear,
               Close enough to feel,
Because the strings are your lifeline,
And the music is your heartbeat.

And oh yes, it is enough for her.
Because there is nothing louder,
                             Nothing closer,
Than the soft & gentle song
               Of a lover.

It burns.
Life has singed the top of our souls.

What a wasted wasteland
of waist high valleys.
Tasteless are the tempest
of tepid orange sunbeams.

Yet here we are,
You the broken winged dove.
I the child with rats nest hair.
Scream not, -silly -soiled bird
None could hear it but I.

—Lounged against the
shallow shards of
Hurt and Love.

Warily the hand that cradled your gentle head reaches the nape of my neck.
Clawing at unseen seams hidden behind
An oil slick of course hair.
A light emerges and you flutter slightly, feathers of white puff against the warming air.

As the skin gave way the world grew,
Anew-the shadows stretched across
barren disinterested land.
Valleys filled with blue,
and evergreen trees took root!

The sudden winds made your eyes water with the sand and dirt that blew against,
        pushing you against my breast.
As the calm settled again,
the world,
filled with benevolent vibration.

For as the mask was removed
The beauty had grown.
As the world was rejuvenated,
So did the broken, heal.

Oh what a freedom it is!
To let the light shine!
Oh what comfort it is!
To see your shadow is not alone!

So take flight my renewed dove,
Speak not of your sorrows.
Preach of life’s miracles
Sing a song of love.

It smells like loneliness outside.
The smell of a hot dog on a grill after a storm,
mingled with propane and cigarettes.
The smell of solitary.

A string of “cold and broken hallelujahs”
no longer dulls the senses.
It’s senseless anyway.

I eat my brown rice in front of the sink
and I am reminded of the taste of Play-Doh.
It’s funny how loneliness creeps in on the wind,
the cars’ wheels in the rain,
the braking of the bus,
scuttling of squirrels...

Maybe a hot tea or toddy
(maybe something stronger)
will keep this autumn-ness at bay.

words are dying
painfully
in a hairy storm
of electric eruptions

beckoning winter’s
deathly tempest
rampart
like an iceberg fist—

—My fires have been talking
far too closely with my waters

of how our love
could be a rock elephant—
a temple, whole, or magnificent
like an incantation
on a balanced leg;
but you, scissor-cat
of forget-me-nots;
but you—favorite
flower eating our paper mouse:
pining affection is thin
and imbalanced inertia
in love is a bolted door.